


commodify the pain

by spektri



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Drunk Sex, M/M, Miscommunication, these assholes don't know what to do with themselves let alone each other, try to put feelings into that mess and you've got a damn disaster in your hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 09:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11666460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spektri/pseuds/spektri
Summary: Multiple drinks and multiple misunderstandings. Being drunk might make it easier to start, but no easier to continue.McCree very decidedly doesn’t think about how Hanzo’s hand rests on the curve of his hip, warm and unintentionally inviting, only a small drop away from cupping his ass; he doesn’t think about Hanzo’s lips, still moist with whiskey, torturously kissable. McCree doesn’t think about Hanzo at all, plastered at his side, talking about how hideous McCree’s sense of fashion is, laughing at his own words and not scathing with intention at all.





	commodify the pain

**Author's Note:**

> i think i read at least 7 books between starting and finishing this, which probably shows. sorry.

_a)_

 

Drinking with Hanzo has become less of a novelty and more of a weekly occurrence, but every time they stumble back to the base McCree feels increasingly unreal about it all. That a person who was the closest one could be to a prince without actually being one would choose to spend his time with someone of McCree’s background, first of all, was astounding: the contrast of McCree’s seemingly loud, even abrasive nature to Hanzo’s reserved, sophisticated one even more so. And the fact that he willingly seeked his companionship (albeit after some persuasion) to drink, talk, watch movies, even play cards on occasion…

Well. McCree went and developed himself a pesky little crush, didn’t he? 

It’s not helping that McCree’s innocent—well, at first, anyway—flirting has been getting a better reception after every night. It’s something that starts to make a man think he has a chance, and that’s _dangerous_. McCree doesn’t like false hope. It’s never gotten him anywhere good.

So even with Hanzo’s (muscular, smooth, solid) arm slung over his shoulders so that he has to bow low enough to have Hanzo’s warm, breathless laughter tickling his earlobes, he tries to keep his thoughts pure and strictly platonic. It’s not easy, not when whiskey has warmed the pit of his belly to welcome the growing arousal, or when the pink on Hanzo’s cheeks make his royal face look nothing short of ethereal.

McCree very decidedly doesn’t think about how Hanzo’s hand rests on the curve of his hip, warm and unintentionally inviting, only a small drop away from cupping his ass; he doesn’t think about Hanzo’s lips, still moist with whiskey, torturously kissable. McCree doesn’t think about Hanzo at all, plastered at his side, talking about how hideous McCree’s sense of fashion is, laughing at his own words and not scathing with intention at all.

Hanzo tugs at his belt with a crooked finger and deems it ridiculous.

“Maybe you should get rid of it, then,” McCree says, mouth running faster than whiskey-clouded brain. As soon as the words are said, regret sets in. _Too far_ , he thinks, _and too much._

But Hanzo doesn’t recoil, doesn’t even frown. That wicked smile only spreads, another finger hooks the belt, tugs insistently.

“Perhaps I should,” Hanzo says, voice smoke and sultriness. McCree inhales sharply and doesn’t think, doesn’t think, doesn’t think.

Hanzo’s hands move again, a third finger under his belt, a more insistent tug: the hand on his shoulder slides across shoulder blades, down his side, up and down again. McCree is frozen still, body and thoughts in limbo, unable and unwilling to change the course of whatever it is that is happening. Uncharacteristically he makes no sound, says nothing, gives nothing.

“Jesse?”

The fingers under his belt move to slip under the seam of his jeans, hot hands making contact with skin and McCree swallows something heavy and hard deep down where his feelings, whatever they may be, lie.

McCree hums in question just to show he heard Hanzo.

“This is my room.”

McCree snaps his senses back online, takes stock of the surroundings and admits, “Ye-up. Sure is.” He braces himself for the cold of Hanzo’s proximity leaving, for the ice bath of disappointment for losing the things he forces himself not to hope for. It doesn’t come, and he feels dizzy.

“You are swaying,” Hanzo says, something dark and unidentifiable in his tone. “Come in. You will have a glass of water before going.”

“Bossy,” McCree says, word more breath than enunciation.

It’s Hanzo’s turn to hum and say nothing else. The touch is gone and leaves the ghost of a branding on McCree’s skin. He follows Hanzo with his eyes: looks at the broad back with hunger that he doesn’t want to feel, doesn’t allow his gaze to follow lower than Hanzo’s spine afraid of what it would do to the burning inside him.

Hanzo opens the door and steps in with the grace only he could muster. A beckoning gaze that McCree would love to imagine being seductive is cast from over his shoulder and so he follows.

The room is spartan, not much else in it but the essentials. McCree doesn’t think about fixing it, doesn’t think about his clothes on the floor and in the closet or warm, earthy reds and browns enriching the standard dusty whites of the decor. He doesn’t think when Hanzo disappears into the bathroom and he doesn’t think when he sits on the bed, body heavy and head light, mind full of static and not much else.

Hanzo comes back with his hair spilling on his shoulders, with the promised glass of water in hand, and a familiar stern expression on his face that McCree wants to bury in his hair.

“Drink,” Hanzo says, and McCree does as he is told because you don’t say no to a deity.

“Dunno if I said it before or not, but you look real pretty with your hair down like that,” is another thing you shouldn’t say, and yet McCree does. It’s out before he has the good sense to censor himself, and his good sense is so far removed he can’t even bring himself to regret it.

Why not call a horse a horse? And why not call the most gorgeous man alive just what he is?

“Hell,” McCree says, not able to stop, “you look pretty always. Never seen anything prettier, being honest.”

At least he has enough respect to avert his gaze as he says it. Something he regrets the second a strong hand has pushed him by his chest on his back.

“Pretty?” Hanzo rolls the word on his tongue, testing, tasting. “Is that how you see me?”

McCree sees nothing but stars as Hanzo’s legs steady on his sides. A warm weight on his lap gets thoughts flooding in his mind, and he forcibly stops them from going any further. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t think.

He doesn’t think about how Hanzo’s hands are working on the buttons of his shirt. He doesn’t think about how his own hands find themselves resting on Hanzo’s waist. He doesn’t think how Hanzo leans in with a quirk of his eyebrow, how he looks like he came straight out of one of McCree’s daydreams, how he never thought they would end up here.

McCree breathes out a shaky exhale, trying to regain himself, be something else than pieces on the bed. “One of the ways, yeah,” he breathes, “among one of the best combatants, sharpest wits and secretly kind people I ever knew.”

Hanzo softly chuckles, traces his fingers on the skin he’s exposed. “ _Kind_. Not a word many people would associate with me.”

“Well, I know better, partner,” McCree says. “Know a lot. Know that you care more than you let on.” He knows Hanzo brings grapes to injured teammates, knows he hides snacks for Hana so that she’ll find them at night, knows that Hanzo gives aiming tips to those less familiar with firearms. Knows Hanzo makes him drink water when they have been drinking and steadies him when they walk back to their quarters, knows that he sends him a message making sure he is alright last thing in the evening and a message asking if he needs anything first thing in the morning.

Hanzo’s hand cradles his jaw, and he is met with a gaze softer than he is used to. McCree doesn’t think about how his heart feels as if it’s lodged in his throat.

“ _Kind_ ,” Hanzo repeats, softly.

“Uh-huh.”

“We both know that is untrue… but I appreciate you thinking of me so highly.”

Another painful swallow, and McCree rasps, “Darlin’, if you only knew.”

Hanzo’s face is closer, only inches away.

“I think I might be beginning to find out,” he says.

McCree knows it’s coming and even then the kiss takes him by surprise. How sloppy and intense and open it is, how perfect and right it feels. Maybe he is imagining, pouring all the hopes of past months into this one drunken stumble, but he feels as if nothing in his life has ever been this good.

Hanzo’s mouth is hot and heavy and insistent, and all McCree can do is hold tight and not fall off. Hanzo sets the pace (fast) and the weight (heavy) and McCree is more than okay with it. At that moment there are few things he would mind Hanzo doing, straddling and devouring him like that.

Somewhere along the way Hanzo has managed to pry McCree’s shirt open and has his hands dragging warm tracks along McCree’s chest. McCree itches to do the same to Hanzo but his hands are dead weights on Hanzo’s waist, and his mind insists if they’re moved something will shatter.

Then Hanzo moves, his mouth finds refugee on McCree’s throat and McCree shudders. He lets his hands drop, finally, on the bed, then gingerly places the one still flesh on Hanzo’s lower back. Marvels at the solidness of the muscle there. Not like his love handles (although _love_ might be far from what is happening here), soft, pudgy. A fleeting doubt of _what will Hanzo think?_ disappears the moment Hanzo’s tongue makes its path clear: across McCree’s chest, hastily mouthing through the thickets of hair, down, down, down.

When McCree can feel teeth on his zipper he realizes: this is nearing the point of _no turning back._ And while he has been driven into many a corner during his chaotic lifetime, he prefers to have room to maneuver.

“Han…”

His voice is not much more than a gasp, and he pretends that the decision to use a nickname rather than say the name in full was exactly that, _a decision,_ and not simply necessity by his own incompetence. The light insistent pressure leaves the front of his jeans: soon a pair of dark eyes peer at him, questioning.

“You called?” Hanzo asks, and if it weren’t for the stern way his face is set, unmoving, McCree could swear there is a joke somewhere in there. As is, he can only guess at it.

“We’re pretty drunk, ain’t we?”

He receives a derisive snort in lieu of an actual answer. “What gave us away? The empty bottle of whiskey we left behind, or the fact I can still smell it on your skin?”

The fact that Hanzo admits to smelling McCree’s skin has him burning something fierce: it is possibly improper in a setting like this. “Now that for sure was sarcasm,” McCree says, earning another snort. “But naw, I mean—this rodeo you’re intent on giving me is a dead giveaway.”

An emotion flickers through Hanzo’s handsome features, and McCree has felt it and witnessed it often enough to recognize it just for what it is: doubt. And he realizes that he is letting Hanzo come to his senses. It is only fair, he tells himself. He would want to be given that.

Hanzo’s leaned away, and the space between them feels like miles. Unreachable.

“Oh,” Hanzo says.

McCree doesn’t think about how his existence has disappointed Hanzo definitely not for the first time.

“I… apologize. I went ahead of myself, and obviously— _misinterpreted_ some signals—”

After minor shuffling, the heavy weight of Hanzo’s thighs lift, a foot falls clumsily on the floor, and McCree doesn’t think how Hanzo just—

Wait.

“Wait,” McCree says, rearranging himself to sit properly.

“I will not bother you longer,” Hanzo says curtly,  and doesn’t wait.

“No—” McCree stumbles up, catches Hanzo at the doorway, grabs his wrist and receives a fiery glare in return. It would scare him if something else hadn’t just did that, and so much worse. “You ain’t bothered me none. That’s not it.”

“Do not try to make me feel better. I am a grown man and can handle rejection perfectly fine—”

“No, no, _Hanzo_.” He tugs the seething dragon closer, unbothered by the fire hazard. “Ain’t no-one rejecting anyone. I just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page is all.”

Hanzo is suspicious, staring at McCree as if trying to make him crumble; he has been, and still is, but not for the reasons Hanzo is trying to find.

The longer he stares, the more McCree thinks. He thinks, now he’s done it, repelled the man for good. He thinks, what could he have seen in him in the first place. He thinks, he should’ve kept his mouth shut. He thinks, _oh well—_ didn’t he know it would be a bad idea from the get-go?

“Alright,” McCree says. Finally frees Hanzo’s hand. “I’ll go. It’s your—”

But he doesn’t get to finish the sentence when Hanzo’s newly released hand covers his mouth. Another one pushes him by the chest, with enough force that even if McCree tried to resist—which he doesn’t, he couldn’t, he never _would_ —he would have a hard time to hold his place. He’s pushed backwards until a wall stops him, and then—then, Hanzo jumps up, wraps his legs around McCree with the finesse of an acrobat, which McCree suspects Hanzo just might have been in one lifetime or another, and kisses him, hard.

And McCree _doesn’t think_ when they fall into each other.

  
  


_b)_

 

Hanzo wakes up to a dawning headache and mouth full of hair.

At first, it seems much like a regular morning. Then, the memories come.

It is not unpleasant, per se, but it doesn’t mean his breathing doesn’t get exponentially more difficult with every minute of recollection on last night’s events.

He opens his eyes when he realizes he is not hugging a pillow—and that the hair causing him a choking hazard is far too short to be his own.

Trying to combine haste and care he peels himself off the sweaty chest he’s drooled all over overnight. He clutches at the sheets underneath, half unmade in their last night’s carelessness, and breathes deep: in, out, in, in a desperate bid to reach some sort of peace of mind.

Not unsurprisingly, it does not happen. His thoughts only get more jumbled, a crackling static of loud white noise.

So: they ended up here. It wasn’t exactly unexpected, there were signs; Hanzo’s growing attraction and affection aside, McCree hadn’t exactly been _subtle_ about his intentions… although Hanzo, in his stubbornness, had insisted on not taking it as truth. Last night? It puts everything to new light.

…Doesn’t it?

Hanzo _knows_ his selling points. They have led him to multiple enjoyable evenings in his life. But (and he is loathe to admit it, even only to himself) he never wanted it to _just_ be _an enjoyable evening,_ when it came to Jesse McCree.

He tries to recover the mental film of last night: tries to separate the important events of the unimportant ones. It is difficult, since every word, every look, every touch sends a shiver down his spine and a burning in his gut and he cannot _breathe_. Everything felt so right, then, and now? Now he’s sunk deep in somewhere he cannot swim up.

He turns around despite his better judgement and takes in the face of the man he’s been craving for longer he should have. And unfortunately last night’s tumble did nothing to quench that craving.

Hanzo wants to reach out to that peaceful face, trace his fingers along his jawline and smooth out the sleep-mussed beard. He wants to crawl back into the crook of McCree’s elbow and fall into sleep as peaceful as he seems to have. He wants to bring their lips together as gently as possible and still wake him up.

But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t know what would happen if he did.

There’s no guarantee last night’s enthusiasm would lend itself to the morning. No guarantee McCree would welcome a touch with his mind clear of alcohol. No guarantee the words and sentiments exchanged were anything more than spurs of the moment (no pun intended).

So, knowing he doesn’t deserve even that much, Hanzo sits and stares at one of the most beautiful faces he’s had the privilege of laying his eyes on, trying to find a sort of meditative quality in it all, and failing.

He feels sick.

He wants to see McCree rouse from his sleep, see whether he does it in a snap or with great difficulty; wants to see his face light up at the sight of himself, and wants to be the first person to wish him a good morning.

But Hanzo is a coward. He is a coward, and a traitor, and a criminal to boot. Everything he has ever done amounts to one thing; unworthy of love and affection, and that’s that.

Besides, surely McCree would rather he weren’t there, in any case. They had their fun. What more could Hanzo be able to give?

He lifts himself up, trying to will his body be lighter than it really is, and shuffles off the bed—not the easiest feat, when he is the one who fell asleep next to the wall, and a twin bed is not the ideal size for two large men—hoping not to rouse McCree. Thankfully he seems to be a deep sleeper: with noiseless steps Hanzo scurries to the bathroom, locking the door with a needlessly loud _clack_ behind him.

First thing he does is open the tap of the bathroom sink and douses his whole head with water as cold as the tap gives. It may not still his rapidly beating heart, but the superficial discomfort takes his mind off of it, if only for a few moments.

He leans his forehead against the cold mirror, closes his eyes, and breathes deep. He focuses on the breathing and nothing else.

Or, he would, were it not for the oppressing presence of someone he might describe as _the man of his dreams_ were he not a disillusioned 38-year-old assassin instead of a starry-eyed teenager.

The other room beckons him as much as it repels. He is torn between crawling back to bed and take all the joy he can out of this situation that might as well end when McCree’s sleep does, and climbing out of the bathroom window and running away forever.

His state of nakedness is what makes the decision for him in the end. While he is not by any means shy about his body, he is not a big fan of the idea of getting arrested for _public indecency_ , of all things.

Again moving with hard-trained silence he opens the bathroom door and slips back into his room. He does not get to make the choice of what to do next for himself: he wouldn’t need see McCree sitting on the bed to know he’s awake; he can _feel_ the shift in the atmosphere.

McCree is a vision—not the regular kind, mouth-watering attractiveness, but something that tugs Hanzo’s heartstrings. Hair mussed, eyes bleary, limbs sprawled in front of him; he’s obviously only just woken up and not happy about it.

McCree says, “Babe?”, his voice hoarse from sleep.

Hanzo doesn’t know why, but suddenly it’s difficult to speak. A breathy _“Yes”_ is all he manages in answer. His heart is beating, mouth dry, brain abuzz.

“Come back to bed,” McCree says. Whines, almost. Makes a motion on the bed with his hand that would be a pat if his fingers didn’t drag the mattress (too tired to hold his hand up, Hanzo thinks).

Hanzo does as he’s told. Heavy feet carry him to the edge of the bed, and heavier still body dips the mattress underneath. He doesn’t move further, doesn’t lie down, simply sits there holding his hands in his lap like he doesn’t know what to do—because he doesn’t.

McCree turns around, Hanzo can hear it and feel his breath against the bare skin on his back. Careful fingertips ghost over his hip where McCree had gripped tight last night. Hanzo could remember it vividly if he so wished. He doesn’t.

If he were to think logically he would realize that it’s more than likely that McCree’s wishes were aligned with his. He tries to, but it doesn’t work. His mind is insistent on denying the signs: maybe McCree is just a considerate lover, trying to make his partner feel good even in the morning. Maybe he is looking for another round. Maybe he is imagining somebody else in Hanzo’s place, thought that burns more than anything they have gotten up to thus far.

Hanzo decides there is nothing to it. It is as simple as Hanzo’s incapability to grant himself any kind of happiness.

“Regrets?”

McCree’s voice is low and strained.

Hanzo says nothing. There is no way to answer: how to put into words the tightness in his chest ever since he woke up? No—ever since he realized the depth of his feelings for the first time.

“Shit,” McCree whispers.

Hanzo nods. Shit.

McCree say nothing for a while, but Hanzo wishes he would: wishes he would curse their alcohol intake, say that none of this should have happened, beg him to keep it as a secret and never do it again, in fact, never _speak_ again unless absolutely necessary, as in their profession it surely would. Hanzo wishes he would go, hastily clothe himself but carefully enough not to leave any clues for outsiders, go and not look back.

He does _not_ want McCree apologising—it’s _him_ who’s to blame, not McCree, he’s decided to take the responsibility and the heartbreak and spare McCree from having to spare another thought to their ill-advised night together.

“I’m sorry, Hanzo,” McCree says.

Of course he does. Hanzo steels himself. Somewhere in his chest a muscle tightens in expectation that feels dangerously like _hope_. Foolish, foolish hope.

“I must’ve misunderstood. I thought I’d got us on the same page.” McCree moves, swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and Hanzo can see him from his peripheral vision but makes a point of not focusing on it. “Guess we should slow down with the parties, with the way it’s messing with our communication. Or just… stop having ‘em.”

Hanzo stands up and turns his back on McCree so that he can’t read anything from his face, even accidentally.

He has done plenty of stupid things while intoxicated, but never, _never_ before anything as irresponsible as this. But he deserves it: he deserves to drive away the good things in his life. It was ridiculous of him imagining that _happiness_ could, even briefly, be on the cards for him. He murdered that possibility along with Genji. And while Genji may have been… reborn, for the lack of a better term—that would not. Ever.

Especially not at the expense of Jesse McCree.

“It’s fine,” McCree says, although he does not sound _fine_ when he claims it. “A man’s gotta have his fun. Ain’t your fault I wanted more than that. Not like I said it outright. Not in as many words, anyway.”

“There is nothing more I can give,” Hanzo says, faster than his mind has the time to tell him to quiet.

“Yeah. Fun’s fun. Got it.” Coarsely.

That is not what Hanzo means. And McCree—Hanzo does not want to think about what McCree wants, not because he doesn’t care, but because that’s what he would give everything for. It would make sense for him to let McCree think what he thinks now.

Hanzo self-sabotages. He self-sabotages even his self-sabotage. _How the mighty have fallen_ , he imagines someone saying, perhaps multiple someones, someones who still have a hold on his life even though they are dead by his own arrows.

“Not because I wanted you for fun,” he says, possibly the most coherent sentence he has managed since coming to this room, this room that feels oppressive from the possibilities laid in front of him. “It was never that.”

“Then what? Gimme some answers, Hanzo, ‘cos the way I see it I laid my heart bare for you and all you’ve done is close up.”

McCree is blaming Hanzo for cowardice, and Hanzo can’t deny that. At the same time, while well-aware of his shortcomings, he _refuses_ to sink that low.

“It—” He starts before he has his words conjured, sighs deep, aware of this point-of-no-return—but in the light of these revelations, that was passed a long while ago, already. “You have made me happier than I thought possible. Not last night, although it was… exceptional. The events leading up to it. Your continued consideration, kindness, company, things I haven’t deserved but which you granted me nonetheless. I have come to… appreciate you, your place in my life, and… I do not want to ruin it.”

He speaks in fractured sentences, because he’s had enough of miscommunication: still, he’s unsure if the fumbling words achieve the meaning he tries to convey. That Jesse McCree is good for him, but he, himself, destroys everything good that he’s granted. Eventually this would include McCree, too.

“Hanzo.” It’s said with emphasis, enough emphasis that if he were in a room full of people, everyone would turn to look.

“Yes.”

“You deserve it.”

Hanzo sighs. “I am not debating this.”

“And I’m not debating either,” McCree says. Behind Hanzo, he hears shuffling, then a clink that Hanzo _shouldn’t_ recognize as McCree’s belt just by the sound of it, but does, anyway. “I’m stating facts. Here’s one: you’re a mess.” Hanzo almost smiles at that. “Here’s another: so am I. And top of it all, I ain’t got nothing to do with your past mistakes. I’m separate from you and Genji and all the people you’ve hurt, just like you’re separate from me and the Deadlocks and the people I’ve killed. Maybe we ain’t good people, but we can still have good things in our life.”

Hanzo hates it when McCree makes speeches. Not because of the way he does it—he could listen to the timbre of his voice for hours on end, and most of the time the things he says make sense. He hates it because they make him think. Force him to get out of his own destructive mindset and think—sometimes—that searching redemption does not have to be the _only_ thing he gets to find.

“And, before you say you ain’t a good thing—to me, you’ve been one of the best. Not the happiest life I’ve led, but a little happier since you’ve been in it.”

Blackmail. Hanzo would never deny McCree happiness. Not if it was in his power. McCree has to know it. Or maybe he doesn’t—maybe Hanzo has not made that clear.

He has hidden his feelings, but he thought they were obvious enough for McCree to grasp.

He thought McCree did not care. Then he thought he knew better. He never knows better.

He thought—

He thought too many things.

He wants McCree. He wants to fall back into him, sleep until noon, find a new way to wake up with none the nausea and even less words. He wants to see him without having to hide the warmth spreading in his chest. He wants to deserve it.

He wants, but he doesn’t know how to want this. He doesn’t know how to pursue this.

But he doesn’t know how to let it go, either.

**Author's Note:**

> i... had two scenes in my mind, and it wasn't supposed to get this... angsty? i guess? i wanted to make them be happy but they didn't let meeee.
> 
> i'm honestly somehow more confused about posting this fic than i have been ever before. what the shit.
> 
> also gotta love those open endings amirite


End file.
